


Left for Salvage

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Choking, Established Relationship, Frank Castle Complains a lot Instead of Solving Anything, M/M, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, relationship angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank finds it best not to think of the problems you can’t really solve, the people you can’t really save.





	Left for Salvage

As far as waking up goes, Frank’s come to appreciate mornings like these. The sheets are softer than he’d chose for himself, indulgent in a way that bypasses luxury and climbs unabashedly into hedonistic. They make him want to linger, and there’s only about a thousand reasons he can’t.

He can’t, but he does, for a minute or two. If he stays too long, Red wakes up. Even in his sleep, Red’s got a freaky sense for when people are watching him.

In his sleep, Red looks softer. Long limbed and classically pretty, with that red hair and those dark lips. Sleeping, Red doesn’t have the devil in him at all. Sleeping, Red’s just about as close to one of those Renaissance angels as you’re liable to find outside some fancy art museum.

Frank snores when he sleeps; he’s broken his nose so many damn times it can’t be helped. But then, no one has ever wanted Frank for his face, not really.

Used to be, he wasn’t allowed to spend the night. Red always fucked like it was just a natural continuation of their brawling, and even when it was started being a regular thing, it was still all violence. Red wanted to struggle, wanted to be hurt.

Frank didn’t really like hurting the folks he fucked, but he _did_ like Red. He did what he had to if it meant this… _thing_ they had continued.

But then Red asked him to tie him up. He wanted to play games, pretend Frank was catching him off guard, pretend he didn’t want what he was asking for. The first time he cried for Frank to stop, Frank had -- and had gotten punched for his trouble, Red five kinds of pissed off when Frank broke the scene.

Frank does a lot of things he doesn’t like for Red.

It doesn’t matter much that when Frank had finally allowed himself to fantasize about sex with other men, he’d always leaned more toward being the one pinned and fucked. It had taken years after the first time he’d caught himself looking too long at some other guys in the locker room, but he’d finally come to an understanding with himself. He was allowed to want things, allowed to have them sometimes too.

But to have Red, he had to set some of his own preferences aside. Red’s fantasies didn’t work if he was topping.

Frank kind of understands. He’s left his own religious roots behind, or as much as a man can after years of seminary school. Catholicism colours some of his behaviour, but not too darkly these days.

For Red, it’s different. Red clings to his faith even as he finds a hundred little corkscrew ways around it to lead the kind of life he does. Playing that Frank’s taking advantage of him while he’s punch drunk or incapacitated on painkillers, or that he’s broken in to the apartment like some low life creep… playing these games creates a kind of plausible deniability Red needs.

Honestly, it’s easier just not to think. Frank says ugly, cruel things that he doesn’t mean, and finds himself wondering, fruitlessly, how much of the shit Red says _he_ means.

The thing is, if Frank were allowed, he’d love Red proper. He’s dumb as shit in a lot of ways, but he knows himself well enough to know what’s in his heart. If Red could tolerate it, he’d never leave another bruise on him, at least not from… not from this.

But Red doesn’t want his love. Red wants hard and rough, Red wants to cry _no_ and _please don’t_ while he works himself on Frank’s cock to make up for the way Frank always hesitates.

When they started this, Red would take off for the shower the second they’d both caught their breath, clearly expecting Frank to be gone by the time he was finished. And at first, a little confused by the whirlwind of violence that somehow transmuted halfway through to blinding pleasure, Frank had been fine grabbing his shit and getting the hell out of dodge. He’d thought, the first few times, that this was some kind of fucked up psych-out attempt on Red’s end, throw Frank off his game with a wild fuck.

Things had changed when Red had grabbed his hand and pushed his fingers to curve around his throat, grinning that shit-eating grin even as his fogged eyes stared into the nothing between their faces. Frank had felt sick, his cock hard against Red’s thigh, and Red had said, “Go on -- you can’t tell me you don’t wanna shut me up.”

Some things, Frank couldn’t do, even for Red.

He’d ended up throwing his back out fucking Red against the wall, not really choking him but holding him against the wall with a hand around his throat, and even that had made him feel guilty in a way he hadn’t thought he could anymore. When he’d cum, Red’s fingers digging into the back of his head, he’d been unable to stop shivering, laying Red out and checking him over for worse bruises than he’d had when he started, certain he’d be bleeding.

Red snarled and bitched the whole damn time. “I don’t need to be looked after,” he’d spat, like the concept was some kind of curse, and Frank had snapped back, equally venomous,

“Maybe it ain’t for _you_ I’m doin’ it.”

It was as close to a confession as they’d gotten. Frank had half expected Red to kick him out, but he’d huffed and sighed and dragged Frank down into the bed with him, let himself be bundled into Frank’s arms, and they’d fallen asleep that way.

Now that was just the way of it.

Frank does a lot of shit he doesn’t like to and for Red, and in return, he’s allowed these moments, early in the morning, soft grey light filtering in just enough for him to take in the soft peace of Red’s face.

There’s more Frank would ask for, but he doesn’t. He takes what’s on offer and he does what Matt asks (mostly) and accepts that this is as good as he’s likely to get when he’s done something as dumb as climbing in bed with a guy who calls himself the Devil. Red doesn’t want flowers and kisses, Red doesn’t want dates out to dinner like normal people.

Frank just wants Red, and that means he’ll feast on scraps and take whatever he’s given and tell himself he’s happy enough. It’s not like he’s looking to play house.

He can dream of a little respite on his own time. Softness and gentleness aren’t for men with the kind of blood on them as he’s got.

But he’s got these mornings, too. These soft lit mornings, quiet and not exactly alone, watching Red just breathe, gentle for a while in his sleep.


End file.
